The Unvaxxed Made Their Bed
. . . and they’re destined to sleep in it. I certainly am. And it is a very lumpy bed—I don’t get much sleep.
So, what is this bed? It’s the one we’ve made for ourselves—not the same comfortable illusion the sheep lie in. In our bed, we must witness and endure the death of the world in all its forms: emotional, psychological, spiritual, and physical. While we’ll experience all these deaths alongside everyone else, it’s the physical one that hits hardest for us, because we understand it in a way others don’t. The sheep will face the same losses, but our bed is unique—it’s the place where we know the true reasons people are getting sick and dying. We see through the false narratives they’ve been fed and blindly accept, grasping instead the real causes behind humanity’s demise. That’s our bed, and yes, we made it ourselves.
How? By choosing to investigate, to ignore the mob’s directives, to question everything, and to rely on our common sense. We refused to comply, even when it cost us jobs and more—all deliberate choices. Sure, you could argue we had no real alternative; it was simply our nature to resist. But I don’t buy that entirely. We didn’t have to follow that path. We could have hidden away, blindly trailed the flock ahead of us, or ignored our instincts. Ironically, though, even if we’d tried all that, we couldn’t have shut out the truth completely. No amount of effort to suppress our shrew instincts would have worked—we’d still end up in this same restless bed, tossing and turning fitfully.
So, is it really better to know than to remain ignorant? I’m not entirely convinced it is. I recall a time—though I don’t personally remember it, I certainly know of it—when doctors routinely withheld a terminal cancer diagnosis from the patient. They would inform the family, but spare the sufferer the news, reasoning, “Let them live out their final days in peace.” Part of me resonates with that old compassion, yet part of me recoils from the paternalism. You’d never see that approach today, of course.
In the case of the vaccines and the widespread illness they appear to be causing, the truth should absolutely be known—for obvious reasons. Hiding the origins of someone’s suffering has traditionally been done for the patient’s benefit, to preserve their peace of mind. But in this situation, ignorance is not protective; it’s dangerous. Still, consider the emotional devastation that full knowledge would unleash. When millions of people who are getting sick or dying finally grasp the real cause of their suffering, the resulting wave of anguish, rage, and betrayal would be indescribable. Yet that’s a huge assumption—that they will ever come to see it. I doubt most ever will. Already we see “long Covid” being invented to have a nice pat reason for any anomalies that show up. And of course, the usual suspects come into play if anyone is hard-pressed to come up with a reason for their mysterious demise: climate change and Trump are the more popular explanations.
Most people also reflexively normalize these adverse health outcomes with familiar platitudes—“People die of cancer every day,” or “Heart attacks happen all the time these days.” They only begin to question when something strikes them as genuinely strange: a cousin or family member dropping dead of a heart attack at 35, or a young adult diagnosed with aggressive cancer. Even then, they may quickly dismiss it after spotting a billboard that reads “Even children can have strokes,” and suddenly a 15-year-old’s fatal stroke no longer seems unusual.
Yet, none of us shrews can truly shield ourselves—or anyone else—from the impending torrent of pain and anguish as we watch loved ones succumb to the insidious consequences of this corrupt global agenda. The betrayal runs deep: those we once trusted—governments, experts, institutions—have orchestrated an unconscionable evil, peddling salvation in syringes laced with ruin. And we alone bear the full weight of this knowledge, condemned to witness the world’s slow unraveling through disease, premature death, and the fog of collective ignorance. This is the crux of our self-made bed: not just the discomfort of isolation, but the futile agony of foresight, knowing that our cries of warning often fall on ears tuned only to official lullabies.
How, then, do we navigate this grim vigil? For many of us, silence becomes a reluctant armor. I, for one, find it nearly impossible to confront a friend ravaged by some aggressive, vaccine-triggered malignancy and declare, “This is the harvest of your blind faith.” Nor can I shatter a grieving widow’s fragile solace by unveiling the truth behind her husband’s sudden collapse. It’s a cruelty layered upon cruelty, rubbing salt into wounds we didn’t inflict but can’t ignore. Others among us, bolder shrews with sharper claws, wield truth like a scalpel, slicing through denial without apology. They post, they protest, they provoke—risking alienation for the slim chance of awakening. Which breed are you? The quiet observer, preserving fragile bonds, or the vocal insurgent, gambling on revelation? Either path leads back to the same restless sheets: we can’t unlearn the truths we’ve unearthed, can’t slip into the sheep’s blissful oblivion.
But perhaps there’s a deeper cunning in our predicament, a shrew’s silver lining amid the shadows. Knowledge, for all its thorns, equips us with something the flock lacks: agency. While they drift toward engineered demise, attributing every anomaly to “long Covid” or cosmic misfortune, we can prepare, fortify, and perhaps even subvert. We build networks of the aware, stockpile resilience in body and spirit, and hone our instincts for the battles ahead. In this bed we’ve made, uncomfortable as it is, lies the seed of rebellion—a refusal to wither passively. We may grieve the world’s folly, but we also envision its redemption, one piercing gaze at a time. Ignorance may offer temporary peace, but truth arms us for the long game. And in that, dear shrews, we don’t just lie awake; we rise, unbowed, to rewrite the narrative. For if the sheep’s bed is a grave of complacency, ours is a cradle of clarity—where the dawn of understanding breaks, even as the night deepens.